There's not an object on this earth'
Too humble or too vast for Him'
Who called each insect form to birth',
And clothed with light the cherubim.

LESSON LIV.

THE MOCKING-BIRD IN THE CITY.

BIRD of the South', is this a scene to waken
Thy native notes in thrilling, gushing toné?
Thy woodland nest of love is all forsaken'-
Thy mate alone!

While stranger-throngs roll by, thy song is lending
Joy to the happy', soothings to the sad';
O'er my full heart it flows with gentle blending',
And I am glad.

And I will sing', though dear ones, loved and loving',
Are left afar in my sweet nest of home;

Though from that nest, with backward yearnings moving',
Onward I roam!

And with heart-music shall my feeble aiding
Still swell the note of human joy aloud';
Nor, with mistrusting, soul-kind Heaven upbraiding',
Sigh mid the crowd.

LESSON LV.

SOLITUDE.

IT is not that my lot is low',
That bids the silent tear to flow
It is not grief that bids me moan',
It is', that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam',
When the tired hedger hies him home',
Or by the woodland pool to rest',
When, pale', the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With hallow'd airs and symphonies',
My spirit takes another tone',
And sighs that it is all alone.

The Autumn leaf is sere and dead';
It floats upon the water's bed';

I would not be a leaf, to dié
Without recording sorrow's sigh.

The woods and winds, with sudden wail',
Tell all the same unvaried talè;

I've none to smile when I am freé,
And, when I sigh', to sigh with me.

Yet, in my dreams, a form I view',
That thinks on me, and loves me too';
I start, and when the vision's flown',
I weep that I am all alone.

LESSON LVI.

THE OAK AND THE BROOM.

His simple truths did Andrew glean
Besides the babbling rills`;

A careful student he had been

Among the woods and hills.

One winter's night', when through the trees
The wind was roaring', on his knees
His youngest-born did Andrew hold';
And while the rest', a ruddy quiré,
Were seated round their blazing fire',
This tale the shepherd told.

* Broom, a plant, of which there are several species.

"I saw a crag', a lofty stone

As ever tempest beat';

Out of its head' an Oak had grown',
A Broom, out of its feet'!

The time was March', a cheerful noon-
The thaw-wind', with the breath of June',
Breathed gently from the warm south-west';
When, in a voice sedate with age',

This Oak, a giant', and a sage',
His neighbor thus addressed':-

"Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay',
Along this mountain's edge,

The Frost hath wrought both night and day',
Wedge driving after wedge.

Look up! and think', above your head',
What trouble surely will be bred;
Last night I heard a crash'-'tis true-
The splinters took another road-
I see them yonder-what a load'
For such a thing as you!

"You are preparing, as before',
To deck your slender shape;
And yet, just three years back'-
You had a strange escape.

-no more

Down from yon cliff a fragment broke`;
It thundered down with fire and smoke',
And hitherward pursued its way':

This ponderous block was caught by mě;
And o'er your head', as you may see',
'Tis hanging to this day!

"The thing had better been asleep', Whatever thing it were',

Or Breezé, or Bird', or Dog', or Sheep',
That first did plant you there.

For you', and your green twigs', decoy
The little witless shepherd boy'
To come and slumber in your bower';
And, trust mé, on some sultry noon',

Both you and he', Heaven knows how soon',
Will perish in one hour.

"From me this friendly warning takè”– The Broom began to dozè,

And thus, to keep herself awake',
Did gently interpose:

66

My thanks for your discourse are duè; That more than what you say is trué, I know', and I have known it long'; Frail is the bond by which we hold Our being', whether young or old', Wise', foolish', weak', or strong'.

"Disasters, do the best we can',
Will reach both great and small`;
And he is oft the wisest man',
Who is not wise at all.

For me, why should I wish to roam'?

This spot is my paternal home',

It is my pleasant heritage';

My Father', many a happy year',

Here spread his careless blossoms', here'

Attained a good old age.

"Even such as his may be my lot':

What cause have I to haunt

My heart with terrors'?

In truth', a favored plant'?

Am I not',

On me such bounty Summer pours', That I am covered o'er with flowers'; And, when the Frost is in the sky', My branches are so fresh and gay' That you might look at me', and say'This plant can never die.

"The butterfly, all green and gold',
To me hath often flown',

Here in my blossoms to behold
Wings lovely as his own.

When grass is chill with rain or dew',
Beneath my shade, the mother Ewe'
Lies with her infant lamb`; I see'
The love they to each other make',
And the sweet joy which they partake';-
It is a joy to me."

Her voice was blithe', her heart was light';
The Broom might have pursued

Her speech', until the stars of night'

Their journey had renewed';
But in the branches of the Oak'
Two Ravens now began to croak'
Their nuptial song', a gladsome air';
And to her own green bower the breeze',
That instant', brought two stripling Bees'
To rest or murmur there.

One night, my children', from the North
There came a furious blast';

At break of day I ventured forth',
And near the cliff I passed.

The storm had fallen upon the Oak',
And struck him with a mighty stroke',
And whirled', and whirled him', far away';
And', in one hospitable cleft',

The little careless Broom was left'
To live for many a day."

LESSON LVII.

THE DRUNKEN PASSENGER.

A Real Incident.

ABOUT the middle of January, while transacting business in the city of New York, I found by a notice in one of the morning papers that the last trip of the New-Haven steamboat', (for the season',) would be made on the following Tuesday. As no other means of leaving the city would soon occur, except by the stages, (and that with twice the expense',) I resolved to bring my business to a speedy close', to forego several friendly visits', and to leave the city by the steamboat'; not altogether because it would be pleasanter than stage riding', but because it would better accord with those rigid principles of economy which I was early taught', and had ever found necessary to practice among the rugged hills of Vermont.